December 26th, 2008
Still JerryAnn
My loneliness thrums as I sit in the exam room waiting for my foot and ankle orthopedic surgeon to return with results of my latest scans. It’s been six months since I ruptured my Achilles, and I want the doctor to waltz in and say, “You’re healed. Your hard work and physical therapy have paid off. Get out there and play basketball.”
A gush of air bursts from the doctor’s swollen cheeks as he enters. “Well, Jerry. How’s physical therapy going?”
I want to pound my fists on his chest. Don’t I hear that enough from Dad? It’s going how it’s always going: torturous. “Fine,” I say through gritted teeth.
“And you’re keeping up with your exercises and making all your appointments?”
“Yes, I’ve been a very compliant patient.”
He nods his head. Just say it. Just tell me what the problem is so I can move on with my pathetic life.
“The road to recovery after a ruptured Achilles can be long and difficult. It’s a painful healing process, but for athletes, it can mean a complete change in lifestyle and career.”
I speak through my teeth, clenched tightly. “What are you saying?”
The doctor puts the film on the light box and switches it on, illuminating an image of my ankle. He points at my Achilles and says, “Your Achilles has shortened considerably during the healing process.”
“So?”
“Doing the things you used to do, jumping high, for instance, just won’t be possible.”
Loud static in my mind obscures the rest of the appointment. Basketball is my life. It’s all I am, all I have, all I know. Toby tried to tell me otherwise, but he was wrong.
I limp to my car and sit for ten minutes before I put the key in the ignition. I turn the key again, and again, and again, hitting my fists and forehead on the steering wheel a few times, but Mathilda won’t start.
I pull out my phone and stare at Toby’s number, but I call Dad. “Hey, Dad. My car died. Can you pick me up?”
A game plays in the background. I can hear male voices shouting and commenting. “Sorry, Jerry, I’m in Santa Fe with some buddies watching the game.” At any given time, there is a game happening worthy of being called “The Game” by Dad.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll call Natalie,” he says. “She’s getting off work. She’ll come get you, but first, how’d your appointment go?”
“It was good,” I lie.
“Okay, sit tight, she’ll be there soon.” He hangs up.
I’ve never been small, but as I sit in my car, I shrink, pulling into myself tighter and tighter and smaller and smaller. As I stare out my window, a woman is pushed to her car in a wheelchair, holding a newborn baby in her arms. She’s exhausted and her hair’s a mess, but she’s happy. Her whole body glows, and I’m a black hole.
When Natalie pulls up next to Mathilda, I slither into her front passenger seat in my sweats and an old T-shirt. Natalie’s makeup is impeccable. She’s in a pant suit, and her car doesn’t smell like fish or lemon—it smells like apple pie. Pie makes me think of Toby and the pie crust in his mustache on the night we didn’t kiss.
She turns off the music. “Jerry, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
No, please, I don’t want to talk. I should have called a ride service, but what if Toby was the driver? I put my elbow on the door and lean on my hand.
“Has Cate ever told you about her dad?”
I shake my head.
“He swept me off my feet, showered me with gifts, flowers, and love letters. I was crazy about him. In my mind, he was perfect.”
She’s driving but rubbing her sweaty palms one at a time on her slacks, nervous, and I realize what this is. “Okay, stop right there. I’ll save you the breath. I broke up with Gavin a few days ago. You can tell Dad your speech worked.” Can this day get any worse? She’s not my mom, not even my stepmom, and she’s giving me dating advice?
She’s silent, but then she pulls off of Louisiana into a business lot and puts the car in park. Why can’t we just go home? My life is over. My future is in shambles, and the only person I want to talk to, Toby, is no longer in my life.
She faces me. “This has nothing to do with your breakup.” Her eyes reflect concern. “But are you okay?”
I don’t have feelings. “I’m fine. It’s no big deal.”
She nods, eyes narrowed, and I wonder if she understands me better than I understand myself. “I’m telling you about my first husband because when I married him, he was sweet and kind, even a romantic. In hindsight, I was blind to a lot of things—his lying, his quick anger. He was impossible to please. When Cate was born, she cried a lot, and he couldn’t handle it. He blamed me. I thought if I was a better mom, she’d sleep more and cry less.” She’s quiet and teary.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“It will make sense in a minute.” She lets out a big breath. “My husband seemed perfect, had a perfect family, a perfect job, and from the outside, we were the perfect family.”
“Except for the fact that he beat you and Cate.”
She pulls her head back, surprised. “Did Cate tell you?” She leans toward me, hopeful.
I shake my head. “She’s afraid of men and freaks out when she’s touched.” The incident in the gym with Milo comes to mind.
“You’re more sensitive than people give you credit for.” Natalie lowers her voice. “And a lot more sensitive than your dad.”
I let out a puff of air. “That’s kind of a low bar.”
She laughs nervously. She’s confident in public, confident with Dad, but sitting in the car, vulnerability blankets her, and I wonder why she’s doing this to herself, why she’s doing this to me. She faces me. “Your dad asked me to marry him.”
My mouth falls open. I can’t picture him sharing his TV remote, let alone his life, with anyone but me.
“I told him I need time to think about it.”
“Oh.” I don’t know how to respond. My Dad is not Cate’s dad, and suddenly, I need to fight in his corner. I shift in the passenger seat, angling my body toward Natalie. “Dad would never hurt you. You’ve seen all the stunts Cate’s pulled on him, and he just rolls with it. He can be a hothead when it comes to sports, but he’s never hurt me and he never hurt Mom, and my mom is a piece of work.”
Natalie nods as if she’s already thought this through. “I know in my head you’re right, and every time he proposes, I break his heart and feel terrible about it, but I’m terrified.”
I pull my head in. “He’s asked more than once?”
“Yeah, he asked on Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day. He’s hitting all the holidays. New Year’s is right around the corner, and I’m afraid he’ll ask again.” Natalie puts her head in her hands. “I know Cate hates James, and I can’t do that to her. I love your Dad, I do, but marriage is big.”
“You love my Dad?”
Natalie nods. I knew Dad loved her—I can see it in the way his eyes follow her, and in how hard he tries to keep his bathroom clean—but I wasn’t sure it went both ways. “And you’ve been around him after he eats Mexican food?”
“Yes.” Natalie scrunches up her face in disgust. “Toxic.”
“He’ll never watch a movie without falling asleep…unless there’s a ball in it.”
She’s smiling. “I know.”
“He picks his nose in the car, at stop lights.”
“Yeah, I know, I put a box of tissues in his car. It’s unopened.”
I blurt, “How do you know you love him?”
She’s quiet for a long time, looking out the front windshield, and then she faces me. “When I got married the first time, everything was different and exciting and new, and I was infatuated with all of it, with the idea of who I could become. But with your dad, I’m already who I want to be. James loves who I am, and I love who he is.” She stops for a second. “We’re comfortable with each other, which sounds dumb when I say it out loud, but he makes me happier than anyone else.” Pause. She wipes a tear from her eye. “I miss him when he’s gone, and I can’t wait to see him again.”
I turn my body away. If that’s love, then love is what I felt dancing with Toby, coaching with Toby, laughing with him while burying a turkey. It’s the kind of love a person might put in a custom frame. I face Natalie. “If you love him, you should say yes.”
Her shoulders sag. “I’m not going to make Cate miserable to make myself happy.” She rests her head on the horn lightly, and it doesn’t honk. “I don’t know what to do.”
I finally see Natalie, really see her, for the first time. She left her husband, started a new life in Albuquerque, and left all she was, all she knew, to get away from a man who didn’t deserve her or their daughter. She’s really tough, and despite her tears, I admire her. “Do you want me to help?”
She’s wiping tears from her eyes, so I squint, but nothing happens—no tears, no moisture, just a lot of squinting.
She smiles through her tears and pats me on the knee. “No, I just needed someone to talk to, and I want you to know that I’m not trying to hurt him.”
I nod. “Oh, Dad’s tough. He doesn’t get hurt.” This is one fact I can rely on.
Natalie sits back, faces me, and pulls her head back. “You believe that?”
My eyes shift from side to side. “Uh, I did right up until you said that.”
She laughs. “Your dad is not tough. He may look like it, and he projects a tough-guy exterior, but you would not believe the hours he’s spent worrying about you and Gavin, so yeah, he’ll be thrilled you broke up.”
This surprises me, especially considering Gavin’s the first guy Dad didn’t threaten to disembowel.
“Every time I tell him I’m not ready to get married, his eyes water, and it kills me, and then he slaps his hands together and says, ‘There’s always the next holiday,’ then he throws his stoic expression back up.” She pats me on the leg. “You’re a smart girl, but Jerry, the tough ones have it the hardest because unlike me, who cries at any commercial with a baby in it, tough people are constantly having to work at being tough, throwing up barriers to protect themselves. Why do you think they expend so much energy on being tough?”
I study my hands in my lap. “Because being tough keeps you from hurting.”
She turns the car on. It’s getting cold, and heat blows in from the vents. “They’re working hard to be tough not because they’re the toughest, but because they’re the most vulnerable.”
We’re quiet for a bit and then Natalie backs up.
At home, I order dinner and hope Toby is my food delivery driver. He isn’t.
I lie on my bed, throwing my basketball at the ceiling and thinking about my future without basketball. But that future is unreal. I want Toby to know about Dad proposing to Natalie, about Cate, about my doctor’s appointment, and about Gavin and me breaking up. I tell myself I need to see him because he’s a good listener, but the truth is, I want to hear his voice, smell his cologne, find out if he tastes like pecan pie.
The ball is not in my court. Or his.
There is no ball.
I’ve spent my life avoiding vulnerability, dating guys I never had real feelings for, and let’s face it, I like that Gavin was intimidated by me because it meant I was in control. I liked it when guys dumped me because I never wanted those relationships to work. On the basketball court, I did everything to make sure the ball was mine. I’ve been accused of being a ball hog, but the accusations felt hollow when my scoring record spoke for itself. In my love life, I’ve done the same thing—hogged the ball. I push the right guys away and pull the wrong ones in—and I’m losing, big time.
I pushed Toby away to protect myself, to keep the ball, to be in control, but what if Toby wanted to kiss me on Thanksgiving? Maybe Rose isn’t right for him, and I am.
I drop the ball on my bed and sit up.
“I need to put the ball in Toby’s court.”